


Bottom of the Bottle

by gravedabber



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Depression, M/M, alcohol mention, any suggestions would be welcome, honestly idk what to tag, past abuse (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravedabber/pseuds/gravedabber
Summary: An incomplete little ficlet I've had saved in my drive for over a year now. Might come back and finish it, kinda just wanted to get it out there and test the waters.





	Bottom of the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I've had this written up and near ready to post for nearing a year now. I may not really be in the fandom much anymore but I'm damn well gonna post this.  
> Is it mostly just me projecting my issues onto chase? Yes, absolutely. Will I do it to other characters? Probably. I'm an author. It's what we do.

Chase sometimes sits back and thinks about the day he asked Stacy to marry him. He knew the moment the words left his mouth that he was going to live to regret it. It’s not like he had a choice, though. The plus sign on that godforsaken stick on the counter ruined his life. He remembers her going silent and just staring at him for a solid minute and feeling relief, thinking she was going to say no. But then of course she didn’t, of course she said yes. Why would she say anything else, anyway? Today is one of those days.

He’d gotten home about an hour ago, worn out from filming, and immediately holed himself in his room. He used to love his job, fucking around with his friends and cracking jokes for an audience. Now, though, he’s pretty certain the only thing he hates more is his self.

He’s been staring at his ceiling since he got home, lost in thought, occasionally taking long drags from the bottle of whiskey he’d stashed in his room weeks ago. He didn’t use to be a drinker; used to hate it actually. But as the words coming from his ex’s mouth got crueler and the time spent away from his house got longer, he found comfort at the bottom of the bottle and the blissful oblivion it brought for a few hours.

Since he moved in with his best friend Anti, he’s kept a bottle or two stashed away in his nightstand or under his bed, much to Anti’s displeasure. In the four months Chase has lived with him, he’s had to watch him pour six bottles of perfectly good whiskey down the drain. To say that’s he’s gotten good at hiding it would be an understatement.

Chase is snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Fuck, he thinks, taking one last drink from the bottle and setting it down in front of him. He’s gon’ kill me this time. Might as well go get this shit show over with.

“Chase?” Anti yells from the living room, not seeing his friend or any other indication that he’s home.

Chase stands up from his desk and stumbles to his door. Leaning against the wall and pulling open his door, he smiles out at his friend. “In here, bro!” he says, words only slightly slurred. He can pinpoint the exact moment Anti realizes he’s been drinking – he tenses up and his eyes flicker to the pure black color and back.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?” Anti asks. “Where the fuck did you even have that hidden?”

“Aaanti! Bro!” Chase replies, leaning on his door frame. “Calm down! I was jus’.... Havin’ a drink!”

“Yeah, I can fuckin smell that,” Anti snapped, walking over and pushing past Chase to get in the room. Growling upon seeing the bottle, Anti turned back to Chase, eyes fully black and no longer flickering. “Was that a fuckin full bottle when you started?”

Chase follows Anti with his eyes. “Wassat s’pposed ta mean?”

“It's almost empty, is what that's supposed to mean!” Anti snaps at him.

“I mean,” Chase says, narrowing his eyes at the bottle, struggling to remember exactly how much he’d drank since he got home. “I dunno?”

“I swear to fuck, Chase,” Anti snarls, going to pick up the bottle. “This shit will kill you if you keep it up!”

Before he can think about what he’s saying - not that he’s doing much of that in his state - words are flying out of his mouth. “Maybe that’s what I want!” Chase snaps back, reaching for the bottle, stopping when he realizes what he’s said. Moving his eyes away from the bottle and back to Anti’s face, he freezes.

“What?” Anti whispers, frozen in place, eyes snapped back to their usual blue from the shock. 

“Nothing!” Chase quickly tries to backtrack, suddenly regretting ever touching that bottle and taking a step back from his friend.

“Why?” Anti asks, his voice still not much more than a whisper, hand hovering over the bottle. Chase can’t bring himself to answer, just staring at Anti’s face in fear. He’s not even sure he’s breathing through the anxiety clawing up his throat. He can’t believe he just said that. “Why would you want that?”

“I…” Chase stumbles, further away from Anti and this conversation, not even realizing he’s moved until he feels the wall at his back.

“Chase. Please,” Anti tries again. If Chase didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounded like he was begging. If Chase was sober he probably would have registered the fact that Anti had started shaking. Sliding down the wall, he pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs.

“I’m…” he starts, putting his head on his knees and closing his eyes. “I'm not good enough, A.”

“Not good enough? For what?” Anti asked, sounding much closer than before. Looking up, Chase could see Anti had crouched down in front of him, hand hovering over his arms.

“My kids. My job. Anything but drowning myself in whiskey,” he replied, voice trailing off at the end as he stares off at a point over Anti’s shoulder.

“Chase, you listen to me and you listen to me good. I don’t know who the fuck told you that bullshit or why you believe that for even a second but I will not tolerate that kind of bullshit in my house.”

“No one had to tell me, Anti,” he says, reaching up and pulling his hat off his head and running his hands through his hair, suddenly feeling too sober for this conversation despite the half a bottle of whiskey. “At least not in those words.”

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Instead of responding with words, Chase pointed at an envelope on his end table. Anti, clearing taking that for what it was, reached over and grabbed it, pulling the letter out and reading it. "She's taking the kids, A. Legally this time," he added when it a couple minutes of tense silence passed between the two. "I can't afford a lawyer - not a good one anyway. She's going to take everything that I love away from me."


End file.
